Dear Sylvan,
Yesterday, we went up past Diamond Peak to Timpanogas Lake, easily a two and a half hour drive (when you don’t get lost, which we did), during which you sang Pete Seeger songs, napped, looked for trains, and were just a fantastic little muffin. We stopped on the way up to buy a Northwest Forest Pass, the $30 per year parking pass for Oregon and Washington National Forest Service trailheads. It’s a bit of a racket, since we already pay taxes to provide for these public lands. I think if logging on public lands in the Northwest weren’t so heavily subsidized, I’d feel more inclined to “pay to play,” yet we buy our pass every year, obedient little eggs that we are.
Anyway, at the Ranger Station, you picked up a Smokey Bear sticker and a ring-shaped frisbee, which you proceeded to wear around your face. Smokey Bear is a Forest Service holdout from the 40s, and it’s obvious that the Forest Service is trying to reconcile their newer fire management policies (prescribed burns [to make up for past fire suppression, usually] and letting wildfires burn if they don’t threaten structures) with their older ”fire is always BAD” message: along with the frisbees and stickers, the Ranger Station carried a book entitled The Fire That Saved the Forest.
We arrived at Timpanogas Lake, only scraping the “cute little car’s” (your term) underside on three melting piles of slushy snow on the way in. I pulled into a parking space, and the mosquitoes simply swarmed in through the open windows. Your father, who is by most accounts a happy, positive guy, turned into Grumpmaster Flash in a matter of moments. I quickly reversed the car and started to drive back down the road while your Dad looked for an alternative, lower-elevation hike.
This trip was ill-conceived anyway. It was my idea, hatched from the desperate knowledge that I am now chained within an hour of Eugene for the next month as I await your little brother or sister’s arrival. I needed to get to the mountains since it’s been an extraordinarily long time since we’ve been up there. Early July, though, especially in a year with huge snowfall, is just mosquito heaven. We headed down to 3500 feet to Chuckle Springs, a really short hike right next to the Middle Fork of the Willamette River. No mosquitoes swarmed the car, which, we learned as we started down the trail, was because the car was parked in full sunlight. On the shady trail, the mosquitoes found your soft, sweet flesh and chowed down. I’m sorry. I’m especially sorry that it made you crazy in the middle of last night. You were very sad.
Still, on the hike, we found a nice spot on the river to eat, cool off our feet (I mean “numb our feet”), search for stonefly nymphs on the bottom of river rocks, and throw rocks into the river. Apparently, Sylvan, you are a boy. You climbed down that riverbank, picked up rocks, and started chucking them. I’ve seen 60-year-old men do exactly the same thing. While I enjoy tossing rocks into streams, I’m not overwhelmed with the same biological urge that you folks with a Y chromosome seem to be.
I suggested to Mr. Grumpmaster that he might want to dunk his head in the river to restore his spirits. It helped.
Last year, when we climbed Mt. McLoughlin with Leslie and Wendy, you were an unstoppable little machine, hiking a good two miles on your own, quite sure-footedly. In the past year, your confidence in walking in general means that you fail to look at your feet when it would behoove you to do so. You slipped a few times yesterday, which led to a good deal of whining and even real tears. It’s true we need to hike more so that you’re familiar with it; my belly has put an end to our hikes, since I can’t carry you very far if you decide you’re done. But, in a detached, anthropological sense, it’s just interesting to watch you develop as a hiker. You’re certainly much more likely to want to explore with me now, but you’re not as likely to actually walk for any real distance.
A couple of weeks ago, the Olympic Track and Field Trials were held in Eugene, and 
your Dad and I had tickets. You joined us for most of the events — to your dismay, really. The pole vaulting, which was in front of us near the 200-meter mark on the track, struck your fancy; you liked it when the athletes knocked the bar off. You were also pretty taken with the method of discus retrieval — remote controlled toy pick-up trucks. Silly, but toddler-friendly. Anyone who appreciates a good race should watch these three Oregon runners — Nick Symmonds, Andrew Wheating, and Christian Smith — come from positions 6, 7, and 8 and, well, have a good race (minutes 2-4:30 are the most exciting). Your Dad let me stay that night while he took you to bed, and I’m trying not to rub it in — but that race was so good. I think you’ll enjoy the Trials a bit more in 2012 (when your little brother or sister is, yikes, nearly four!).
We had a Birth to Three potluck in the park last week, and you brought your tricycle, which you just recently started to pedal, a year and a half after you got it for Christmas. A couple of other parents asked why we didn’t have you on a bicycle. Well, because you’re diggin’ the tricycle — and do we have to rush all of your developmental stages? You’ve been riding your tricycle to school, which is two blocks from our summer home, and you and Daddy lock the trike to the bike rack for the day. Very cute.
At the potluck, your Dad went to find me some tasty calories at Sweet Life while I 
held a two-week-old baby (because she’s one of twins and I was being helpful, not because baby-holding is my favorite activity in the world; your Dad holds babies because he’s a fan). You wandered, squirted a water gun, and kicked other people’s soccer balls. I watched your meanderings until finally you started to venture too far. I called you back, and you proceeded to tell me where you were going — loudly, but not loudly enough for yelling across the park. I came over, and you told me you were going to listen to the music. A band, Bad Mitten, had started to jam on top of the little sculpture hill in Monroe Park. We’d heard them the week before, playing on a street corner after the Trials, and they rocked — women with guitars, a fiddle, a ukulele, a trumpet, a saw blade, an accordion, a couple banjos, and a stand-up bass. You, little musician you are, walked right up with a borrowed harmonica to Bad Mitten’s circle and started playing.
You’ve discovered the sprinkler, and you like to lap at it like a dog. You’re a silly boy, and I love you.
Love,
Mommy
